Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 16

7

Several peaceful days passed for Helen. She would sit in her favourite place, on the main balcony with her feet up on the rungs of another chair, notebook and biro unused on the table. It was so easy to drift off into a dream here, and not usually one which inspired her to write or draw. She had fallen into a habit of quiet observation.

She would watch the man who strode across the uneven ground mid-morning to fetch his mule from the field and take it away for the day’s work. She often saw in the distance a shepherd and his dogs as they walked from a house to the high sheep fields, sometimes disappearing from sight when the path wound behind buildings or stumpy trees. Yellow broom was starting to flower in the valley, and in the long grass were thistles, sprawling figs, untended olive trees and patches of wild geranium. Small birds sped about and twittered, butterflies floated in the breeze. Pigeons which believed the balcony belonged to them landed heavily on the woven cane canopy above where

she sat.

Day had gone for a walk to Filoti while the morning was still cool. She expected him back with a newspaper and fresh bread for lunch. He would take his time. He planned to make small talk along the way, hoping to get to know his neighbours. The weekend had been rather quiet. Neither of them felt like starting work. They planned to phone the Elias Museum in a day or two and make a proper appointment for Day to visit. Meanwhile, Day slept most afternoons, and Thanasis was filling their evenings with entertainment of the best sort: home-cooked local food and Naxian wine.

Helen was just watching a distant figure moving towards some blue-painted bee-hives on the hillside when she heard the front door open and Day appeared with a bag of bread and a newspaper. He slammed the paper on the table next to her.

“Just when you think you’re on a peaceful island in the Aegean where nothing ever happens, look at this!”

It was the local paper, The Naxian. Across the front was a sombre headline.

A Murder on Naxos

An American visitor has been found dead in his room at the Hotel Philippos in Chora. The police are treating his death as murder, but have not released further details. The victim appeared to have been visiting the island alone, but the reason for his visit is unknown.

The police have named the victim as Dr Michael K. Moralis from New York. Inspector Cristopoulos of Naxos Police is in charge of the case, and a team from the Helladic Police in Athens is expected to arrive soon to assist with the investigation.

“I know Michael Moralis, Helen!” said Day, interrupting her reading. “We met a couple of years ago in New York. I was covering an exhibition of Mycenaean pottery at The Met Museum for the History Channel, and Michael was hosting me. I think he was working for some Classics department or other in New York. I wonder why he was on Naxos?”

Day stared in disbelief at the article, hands on hips. He walked into the house, then back out to the balcony carrying a glass of water. He leaned on the balcony rail and stared at the valley without seeing it.

“I’ll go and speak to this Inspector Cristopoulos, I think. There could be a tremendous fuss about this. They might need a bit of help, and at least I can tell them a bit more about their victim. Who would want to kill an American academic, for goodness sake? The poor guy.”

“I’m sorry about your friend, Martin.”

“It’s terrible. Really not what you expect as a classicist! They get pretty worked up about their research, of course, but hardly a murdering matter.”

“No.”

“I think I’ll go right away, in fact. I’ll just check something on the computer first. Coming?”

“I don’t have anything to tell the police!”

“OK. I’ll fill you in when I get back .”

***

The Naxos Police Station was several streets from the main square. Two marked police cars were parked outside, a Greek flag drooped on the roof, and grilles were fixed over the windows. If it hadn’t become a police station it might have served well as a small supermarket. Day’s arrival forced the policeman on the desk to raise his head.

“Good morning. May I speak to Inspector Cristopoulos, please? My name’s Martin Day. It’s in connection with the death of Dr Moralis. I knew him.”

“One moment, Kyrie,” said the young officer.

A part-glazed door behind the reception desk stood slightly ajar. As the young policeman reached for his phone, a short figure with a significant moustache opened the door and came out. Unlike the policeman at the counter, this older man looked intelligent, authoritative and weary. He wore civilian clothes and looked a little like an academic. Day was rather pleasantly surprised at this first impression.

“Good morning. I’m Inspector Cristopoulos. And you’re Professor Martin Day?”

“Hello, Inspector. You know who I am?”

“I know of your work in Greece, and that you have a house on Naxos, Kyrie. It’s my business to know our new residents, especially those in your field.”

The Inspector shook hands and continued to study Day carefully. As yet he had not felt the need to smile. The man on the desk avoided looking at them. Day decided to be direct.

“I’ve read in the newspaper of the death of my American colleague, Michael Moralis. I’ve come to offer any information I can, and to be of any possible assistance. If I may, Inspector?”

“The Greek Police welcome information and assistance from the public, Professor Day. Especially when the matter is as serious as this, when there are international ramifications on top of everything. May I suggest we talk in my office?”

There was a certain lack of conviction in the Inspector’s voice, but Day decided it was best ignored.

The office into which the Inspector led him was clean and air-conditioned. The station had recently been repainted, but it remained an old building and its windows were nailed shut on the inside. It was, however, better equipped than Day had expected. Rumour was not kind to the provincial Greek police, but in this case it seemed to be unfounded. Cristopoulos sat down behind a desk which seemed rather large for him and invited Day to sit opposite him. The Inspector regarded his visitor shrewdly from between his two computer screens.

“Tell me, Professor Day, how do you know our victim?”

“I met Michael Moralis in New York when we were working on an exhibition of Mycenaean pottery at the Metropolitan Museum. This was two years ago, in March. I was preparing a television programme, perhaps you saw it? Michael Moralis was showing me round and making sure everything went smoothly; he introduced me to people, that kind of thing. He had a wide circle of professional contacts in the city. At the time he was a lecturer at CUNY, the City University of New York. As far as I know he still is, or was. He specialised in Greek ceramics and was an expert on the Mycenaean period. He was unmarried, at least when I knew him. He had some kind of advisory role at the Museum. We got to know each other reasonably well.”

Cristopoulos regarded him meditatively, as if unimpressed.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Dr Moralis, Professor? Exactly?”

Day felt a small surge of irritation but responded calmly.

“Just professional, Inspector. Can I ask how poor Michael was killed?”

“That information hasn’t been released to the public,” frowned the inspector. “However, I’m going to answer your question, Professor Day, because frankly I think you might be able to help me. You’re part of the world in which the victim moved, you may be able to open up channels of information not readily accessible to me. Contacts, and so on. So, I need to ask for your absolute professional discretion?”

Day reassured him of his professional discretion.

“Very well.” Cristopoulos leaned back from the desk and crossed his arms, regarding Day carefully. “Your colleague was stabbed to death in his hotel room. The assailant was not seen either arriving or leaving. Now, you can tell me something. I’d like to know why Dr Moralis was here on Naxos. Could it have been in connection with his work? Any information you could give me, or discover for me, would be extremely helpful at this stage.”

“I didn’t know he was on the island. Would you like me to make some enquiries?”

The inspector nodded and continued. “So you wouldn’t know if he was here with a colleague or friend?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did the victim’s academic interests relate to Naxos?”

“Michael specialised in the Mycenaean period and wrote a superb book on the Mycenaeans in the Cyclades, so he did have an interest in this area, but I don’t know of any specific or recent connection with Naxos.”

The Inspector sighed, an expression not of disapproval but of despair. Day said nothing. He felt that a corner had been turned and Cristopoulos now regarded him somewhat more benignly. Indeed, Day sensed that the policeman needed his help. The inspector shifted his position and leaned his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers, never taking his eyes off his visitor. He gave a small sniff and nodded.

“As you may know, Professor, my colleagues from Athens will be arriving soon to take over the case, by which time I should like to have made some positive progress …”

“I understand.”

“So, the attack on Dr Moralis took place in his hotel room, as I said. Dr Moralis seems to have opened the door to his killer and not put up any resistance. He therefore may have known the killer, and there was no sign of a struggle. The hotel has informed us that Dr Moralis arrived a week ago, has apparently not received any visitors since checking in, and nobody saw anyone on the night of the murder who may have been the attacker. It looks as if the killer may have known the victim’s room number and so was able to avoid reception staff.”

“Is the reception desk constantly attended?”

“Usually it is, but Saturday night was busy. We did however receive an interesting piece of information from a member of staff. One evening, Dr Moralis chose to enjoy a glass of ouzo in the hotel reception lounge. During that time he spoke to someone on his mobile phone, which we know because the Duty Receptionist is a young woman with excellent English. She heard Dr Moralis referring to an unknown archaeological site on Naxos, and he seemed very excited. He spoke as if to a colleague or person of similar interests. Apparently he didn’t mention the location of the place, or any details except the word sanctuary.”

Day frowned and stretched his fingers, which had been resting on his knees.

“Now that’s interesting,” he said. “Did the receptionist hear anything more? No matter how unimportant?”

“I’m afraid not. Could you give this question your consideration for me, Professor Day? Might the victim have been here in search of an ancient sanctuary? And if so, perhaps he was in touch with somebody locally?”

“My first thought is that it seems unlikely that Michael would be here for that reason. Michael was an academic rather than a field archaeologist, but I’ll look into his recent research interests, maybe explore a few avenues with colleagues, discretely of course …”

Cristopoulos gave a small smile, his first of the interview.

“Good, that would be extremely helpful, Professor. We have a wonderful resource in our local Museum, of course, but you, I believe, have international contacts as well as a familiarity with Dr Moralis himself. Now, please don’t leave the island without speaking to me first, and please leave my officer your contact details on the way out.”

“Of course.”

“And if I may repeat myself, all that I have told you must remain absolutely confidential. Oh, by the way, can you tell me your own whereabouts on the night of Saturday 18th May?”

“I was at home, Inspector, in my house in Filoti, with my friend Helen Aitchison, who’s staying with me at the moment.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

Cristopoulos rose to signal the end of the interview and extended his short arm. The smile had subsided but the expression remained calmly benign.